


something wicked

by shaniacbergara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), but later, this is just????? idek what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaniacbergara/pseuds/shaniacbergara
Summary: A series of run-ins becomes...something rather more.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 73





	1. Smudged Lipstick

Aziraphale picked up the landline on the third ring. It was a relic, that was true, but there were months when he neglected to charge his phone, months when he didn’t answer a single call. They’d gotten the landline as a necessity, and it had ended up suiting them both quite well. Anathema was the one who usually picked it up, but she was off, heading for some adventure or another. Aziraphale didn’t like answering the phone. That’s why he and Anathema worked as roommates, she did the socializing for him, more often than not. It had been like that for years now, and it suited Aziraphale quite well. Granted, he cooked and cleaned and made sure Anathema was sleeping well. That was what he could offer. 

Aziraphale picked up the blasted landline on the third blasted ring. He was just about to say hello into the receiver, when he was abruptly interrupted. 

“Listen I don’t want to hear it, Anathema.” The voice said. The words seemed rude, but they didn’t sound it, the voice on the other end just sounded frazzled. “I know I said last time was the last time but they nabbed me again and I know you’ll pick me up at the station. Just come, will you?” Aziraphale tried to open his mouth again, but he was cut off. “Thanks.” The line went dead. 

Aziraphale began to pace, back and forth, along the length of the kitchen. What on earth was he meant to do? Who knows when Anathema would be home, he couldn’t wait for her, and it sounded like the poor fellow on the other end of the line was in a bit of a tight spot. He was rather close to working himself into quite a state. He turned, the heels of his brightly polished Oxfords squeaking on the clean kitchen floor. He hated talking on the phone. He hated it, despised it. He avoided it like the plague, but if someone was in trouble...he supposed he could make an effort, just this once. 

His cell phone was in his coat jacket pocket, and he reached in there to find it, mercifully, charged. He opened up his contact list, clicked Anathema’s name, and put the phone up to his ear. It rang twice before Anathema picked up.

“Aziraphale?” She asked, and Aziraphale furrowed his eyebrows.

“How did you know it was me?” He asked, puzzled.

“I have caller ID, Aziraphale.” She informed him. She sounded a little out of breath. “I’m in the middle of something just now-” the vague sounds of protestation from further away from the phone cut in, but Aziraphale supposed Anathema must have quieted whoever it was, because she continued “-what can I do for you?”

“Dreadfully sorry, my dear.” He said, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. “Only, you’ve just gotten a call, and the person on the phone wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”

“Oh good lord what’s he done now?” She said, and it sounded like she was rolling her eyes.

“I’m not certain, only he’s claimed he’s at ‘the station’ and needs to be collected.” He informed her, then added, “and then he hung up on me.”

“That’s the bastard.” Anathema said, nearly fondly. “He’s at the police station. Look, I won’t be done here for another few hours, would you mind running to fetch him?” 

“Fetch him?” Aziraphale repeated, in disbelief.

“Yes, Zira.”

“At the police station?” 

“Exactly.”

“Anathema! I have never been to a police station in my life!” He insisted, now worrying at his collar.

“Zira! You’ll be fine, just go pick him up, I’ll owe you a favor!” She insisted, and waited patiently as Aziraphale finished his crisis. 

“...Fine!” 

“Thank you! His name’s Anthony Crowley, just tell them you’re there to pick him up! I promise I’ll make it up to you!” She hung up, going back to whatever on earth she was doing, and Aziraphale huffed, knowing full well that he’d never actually call in that favor. He shrugged on his coat, and headed out into the world.

It was just starting to drizzle when he pulled into the parking lot of the police station. He looked down at his hands as he headed into the station, trying not to panic. He kept his eyes down as he headed up to the front desk. 

“Can I help you?” His eyes shot up. The policeman behind the counter looked kind enough, and Aziraphale could be charming. He smiled warmly at him.

“Hello.” He breathed, and the man softened a bit. “I’m here to pick up someone.” The policeman raised his eyebrows, before looking him up and down.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale examined his outfit, trying to see what had made the man so skeptical. He was dressed as he usually did, khaki and tweed and a warm jumper. He raised his eyebrows, nonplussed.

“Quite sure.” 

“Alright, if you say so.” He grinned.

“I do!” Aziraphale exclaimed, with more confidence than he felt. “Anthony. Crowley. Anthony Crowley, that’s….that’s who I’m here to pick up.”

“Oh shit, really? You’re not his usual pick up.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure he wanted to meet anyone who had a usual pick up from a prison cell, but he reminded himself that he loved Anathema, and that he loved to do favors for others. He reminded himself not to make judgements, however badly he wanted to. 

“Well, I’m here now.” The policeman appraised him again, and took a long pause before replying.

“...I’ll go and get him then.”

Aziraphale nodded, and stood there, feeling ill at ease. He wasn’t sure what he ought to do. Should he sit down? Should he stay standing? What was the protocol for picking someone up from jail? He fiddled with the cuffs of his shirts as he waited. It didn’t take long. He heard the door to the back of the station open, and his eyes shot up. The officer had returned, and had brought who Aziraphale presumed must be Anthony Crowley with him. Anthony Crowley was still mid sentence, chattering away at the bemused looking police officer.

“Anyway, I’m just saying don’t you think that you could be using your time more effectively than by arresting someone who, honestly, hasn’t really done anything wrong?” He grinned, showing all of his teeth. Aziraphale took a moment to look at him. He was tall, far taller than Aziraphale, wearing what appeared to be a short, flared, black skirt over tight leggings. He wore a tight black shirt, with a logo from what appeared to be a band of some sort. His hair was tied up into a bun at the back of his head, he had a light pink color painted on his lips, which appeared to have smeared somewhat, and his eyes were a bright golden brown. Aziraphale swallowed thickly. Anathema might have warned him that the man looked...well…

“I’m not the one who arrested you.” The officer was pointing out, and Aziraphale snapped back into reality. 

“Right, don’t you think YOU could have found something better to do than sit behind a desk?” The officer looked at him, then at Aziraphale.

“He’s your problem, now.” He said, before heading through the door.

“FUCK COPS!” Anthony Crowley called after him, making a very rude hand gesture as the door swung shut. He turned to Aziraphale then, as if only just noticing he was there.”You’re not Anathema.” Aziraphale was nearly stunned into silence, but found his tongue as Anthony Crowley looked expectantly at him.

“No.” He said, but that was obvious, really. “I’m her roommate, but-”

“Suppose she’s off with that shrimpy fellow I saw her with at the open mic on Thursday.” Anthony Crowley said, already heading for the door. How on earth did he manage to walk like that? It was if the man didn’t have hip joints. He swayed, sauntered, swaggered out as if he was above the whole thing.  
Aziraphale hurried after him, his mouth open. Once outside, Anthony Crowley made a bee line for Aziraphale’s car, and waited for him at the driver’s side. Aziraphale paused, letting the rain soak his curls a bit. “Can we get a move on? Come on, angel.” He winked at him.

“How did you know that was my car?” Aziraphale asked, finding his tongue again. Anthony Crowley looked around the lot, obviously and excessively, before looking back at Aziraphale.

“You match.” He said, raising his eyebrows. Aziraphale looked at his beige sedan, and back down at himself. He supposed he could see his point. He went down to meet Anthony Crowley at his car, and Anthony Crowley held out his hand. “Keys.”

“This is my car!” Aziraphale protested. 

“But I’m a better driver.” Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath. The man was grinning like he’d just won the lottery, he seemed to be particularly enjoying Aziraphale’s flustered state. Aziraphale, not knowing what else to do and finding himself keen to get out of the rain, handed over his keys. “Thanks, angel. Now get in.” 

Aziraphale did, and frantically buckled up as the engine roared to life. Crowley peeled out of the spot quickly, and sent them speeding down the road at a pace Aziraphale would rather not spend too long thinking about. Aziraphale’s knee started to bounce. 

“So...why...were you...arrested?” He asked, taking care to choose his words carefully. Anthony Crowley laughed uproariously. 

“No need to sound so hesitant…” he paused, looking at him sideways. 

“Ah, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale provided, realizing what he was waiting for. 

“Huh.” Crowley said, and looked at him again. He looked at him for just a moment passed what might be appropriate, considering he was driving. “I’ve been arrested plenty. I was at a counter protest at Planned Parenthood, and one of those Pro-Life wankers shoved me, so I shoved him back. Unfortunately, the cops saw me, not the dick who shoved me.” He shrugged. “It happens.” Aziraphale stared openly at him. He’d never met someone like Anthony Crowley before. “Christ, you’re not one of them, are you?”

“No, no of course not.” He hurried to assure him, hands held up placatingly. 

“Suppose Anathema wouldn’t room with you if you were.” Anthony Crowley grinned. 

“I would hope not, Anthony.” Aziraphale replied, trying the name on the tip of his tongue.

“Crowley.”

“What’s that?”

“People call me Crowley, not Anthony.” He informed him, and Aziraphale nodded.

“Right, Crowley, then.” He corrected himself. He watched out the window as his own apartment zipped past. “Ah-” But Crowley was talking again. 

“Anyway, I’m dropping myself off at the corner coffeeshop up here, there’s an espresso there that’s truly remarkable. I’ll take you for one, sometime, return the favor.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. 

“Oh, there’s no need for all that.” Aziraphale insisted, waving the offer off. 

“There’s plenty of need for it.” Crowley insisted. “Thank you, for picking me up, angel-Aziraphale.” He said, throwing the car into park. He got out, leaving the keys in the ignition, and sauntered away. Aziraphale watched his hips sway away, biting his lip. 

“Oh dear me.”


	2. Hands and Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there a single gay in the history of the world who hasn't been obsessed with hands?
> 
> I'm over at toby-zachary-ziegler if you need me!!!

Crowley had delighted in shoving the Pro-Life asshole into the mud from the previous day’s rain. He’d deserved it, with the vitriol he was spewing. He’d delighted in getting arrested, too. He was pretty good at that by now. He strode off to the squad car with his head held high, accepting the cheers from his fellow protestors with something akin to grace. If Crowley ever had any grace, he had it here. 

Many people would have called their parents in a time like this, or a lawyer, or someone who might know what to do. Crowley was not most people. He called his friend, the witch, the spiritual occultist, the...whatever she was going by nowadays. He’d met her at a meeting for LGBTQ folks on campus back when he’d been a student, and he’d taken her for drinks afterwards. What happens when a bisexual witch and a genderless, gay trouble maker walk into a bar? Apparently, they become friends nearly immediately. 

He would never call his parents at a time like this. His father would have picked up the phone and immediately insisted that he’d never even had a kid named Anthony, and who on earth was trying to make a fool out of him. And boom, he’d have wasted his one phone call. So he called Anathema, and was insistent upon not giving her even the opportunity to berate him for what he’d done. He said thank you, he wasn’t a monster, and hung up the phone.

While he waited, he swung himself over on the bench. He let his feet rest on the wall of the jail cell, and let himself hang, upside down, over the edge of the bench. He whistled as he waited, some Queen, some AC/DC, whatever came into his head. Just enough to annoy the officers down the hall. 

“Your pick up’s here, Crowley.” Officer Whatever said, opening the cell door. Crowley raised his eyebrows and flipped over, landing on his feet and standing up straight. It’s possible that having his legs in the air wasn’t the most appropriate way to sit in a skirt, but frankly, he preferred it that way. 

“Here I thought cops were meant to be the good guys. You spend all your time watching for people who are just minding their own damn business to step a toe out of line. Is that the way things ought to go? Honestly.” He rambled as he collected his effects. Glasses, which he didn’t need right at that moment, he didn’t need to see, keys, which he kissed before pocketing. “Anyway, I’m just saying don’t you think that you could be using your time more effectively than by arresting someone who, honestly, hasn’t really done anything wrong?” He grinned at Officer Whatever, before glancing towards Anathema.

Only...that was hardly Anathema. That wasn’t Anathema at all. What he was faced with, instead, was the most gorgeous man he’d seen in his entire life. Short, and lovely and soft, round a bit in the belly, with a soft array of white blonde curls. Deep deep blue eyes, and Crowley was a romantic at heart. Eyes like the sea after a storm, that’s what his favorite film said, and he’d never seen eyes like that before today. He thought they’d been made up for a lovely turn of phrase. His lips were plump, and it looked like he wasn’t sure quite what he was doing there. Crowley bit his lip, hard, and forced himself to maintain his cool demeanor. He had a reputation, after all. 

“FUCK COPS!” He’d shouted.

And now? He knew where the fellow lived, knew his name, but didn’t know much else. He didn’t need to. He saw his hair, his perfect eyes, and he’d fallen in love instantly. He told Anathema as much. 

“I’m in love with your roommate.” He said it matter-of-factly, like it was obvious.

“That’s nice.” Anathema said, wiping down the bar. Crowley took that as a go-ahead. But still, it wasn’t like he could just turn up at the man’s house. That wouldn’t be cool at all. So he pined, and he hoped, and he figured, maybe they’d run into each other, sooner or later. 

Aziraphale liked to fill his hours with peace. He loved his job, the bookshop just around the corner was the perfect place for him. He loved reading, shelving, selling books. It was all soft sunlight and his favorite smells. He could always find peace at his job. Customer service was customer service, that was true enough, but it was always manageable. 

He preferred his off hours to be peaceful, too. He liked to read, to knit. He took classes at the local community college, despite having finished his degree, just to have something to occupy him, to try something new. He scheduled tea or coffee with his friends, and kept to his routine.  
However, since Anthony Crowley had sauntered into his life, Aziraphale couldn’t find any peace. Every time he closed his eyes he could see those hips swinging back and forth. Could see the smudged lipstick. Could hear his voice, rambling about getting arrested. And if he kept going like this he’d surely combust, hot under the collar as he was. There was something about him, something that compelled him to learn more. Anathema had asked him about the whole affair.

“Did Crowley give you any trouble?” She asked, as Aziraphale was cutting up vegetables to add to their stirfry. Anathema had managed to snag the leftovers from the restaurant where she worked, and they’d decided to treat themselves to a veritable feast. Aziraphale, avoided eye contact with her, but felt the tips of his ears go pink.

“Ah-no, of course not.” He said,a little too quickly. Silence, from Anathema for a moment. Aziraphale dumped the carrots into the wok, and caught her eye. She raised an eyebrow at him, quirking her lips into a grin.

“Mhmm.” She said, before heading to the fridge for a beer. Aziraphale’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t say anything. 

A distraction came in the form of his midweek art class. He’d signed up for it on a whim, he was no artist, but he liked creating things, and he thought he was improving. The class had graduated from shading spheres to drawing fruit, and he enjoyed the process. Every week, like clockwork, he’d leave the bookshop on Wednesday afternoon to head down to the college. It was just the same this Wednesday, he said goodbye to the bookshop, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and headed out on his short walk. 

He reached the college in plenty of time, even having paused at an intersection when he thought he spied a head of red hair that look startlingly familiar. He’d shaken his head, wondering if he ought to get a cup of coffee before class, but thinking better of it. 

His teacher, who insisted on being called Madame Tracy, was already there, as were a few of his classmates. They were all gathered around a dais, a little platform with a chaise. He sat in the chair closest to it, waving at Madame Tracy and wondering if they were going to work on perspectives today. He sat, admiring the light, and taking a look through his old sketches, setting out his pencils on the desk in front of him. Finally, Madame Tracy called the class to order. 

“Hello hello! Glad to see everyone this evening!” She said smiling at them. She had a warm smile, Aziraphale thought placidly. “I hope everyone checked their syllabi today, to get an idea about what we’re in for this evening!” Aziraphale hadn’t, he never checked his syllabi, not even when he’d been a full time student. “I’d like to invite our model in now, let’s all remember our best practices that we discussed a few weeks ago.” She said, and crossed to the classroom door. Aziraphale looked down at his notes, eyebrows knitting together. He was interrupted by Madame Tracy’s voice once again. “Let me introduce our model, Mr. Anthony J Crowley.” Aziraphale’s head shot up.

Sure enough, there he was, hair down today. No makeup to be seen, but a smile in place like this was the most natural thing in the world. He wore a black robe. 

“Hi all.” Crowley waved a bit with the hand that was not currently untying the front of his robe.

...Not...currently...untying the front of his robe. Aziraphale’s brain short circuited.

“Oh fuck.” He said, louder than he’d intended to. He caught Crowley’s eye, and blushed so furiously he thought he’d burst into flames right there because Crowley...well...he was absolutely in the buff, and good lord, he looked pleased. He looked like he’d just gotten the gift of a lifetime. Aziraphale fought to keep his eyes on Crowley’s face. Madame Tracy did not look amused. “Sorry...I…broke my pencil.” He lied, poorly. 

“No matter.” Madame Tracy said, her eyebrows raised. “Crowley, please get comfortable. Is the classroom an acceptable temperature?” Crowley nodded.

“Perfect.” He said, and lounged on the chaise, directly in front of Aziraphale. He hooked one leg over the back of the chaise, and let the other lie out in front of him, and spread his arms out, letting them fall where they may. His hair, longer than Aziraphale had originally suspected, cascaded around his shoulders. Aziraphale gulped. 

“Class, you may begin.” Madame Tracy instructed. 

Aziraphale was at a loss. He felt like a voyeur, his heart was hammering out of his chest. He stared at the blank page in front of him, doing everything he could to not gaze at Crowley. He flicked his eyes in his direction, and got goosebumps all over his arms. Crowley, was gazing at him, taking no care whatsoever to disguise it. He chanced another look, saw the shape of Crowley, all hard lines and angles, softened by his hair. His hip bones and long lean thighs, his stomach, a light dusting of copper hair leading to-Aziraphale snapped himself out of it. Madame Tracy was coming around, commenting on progress already. How long had he been staring? Best not to think of it. 

He looked at Crowley, who was grinning at him. It wasn’t mocking, like Aziraphale had expected. It was nearly...encouraging? It eased Aziraphale slightly. He took a deep breath, and began to sketch. He lost himself in his work, tracing out the lines, shading, adding in the finer details. Madame Tracy passed by once to hum approvingly at his work, before moving on again. 

Soon enough, before Aziraphale had even noticed, the two hours were up. Crowley thanked the class, before putting his robe back on and exiting. Madame Tracy dismissed them, and left the class first. Aziraphale took his time packing up, his hands shaking just a bit.

He left the classroom, looking both ways first to make sure the coast was clear. He sighed in relief, and moved through the hallway quickly, heading out for the safety of the outdoors. The sun was setting, and he breathed a sigh of relief to be back in the fresh air. 

“Hello, Aziraphale!” He swung around, Crowley was bouncing towards him, looking thrilled. Aziraphale jumped about a foot in the air, before remembering his manners.

“Crowley.” He said, smiling at him. 

“Didn’t expect to see you in a life drawing class.” Crowley commented, and Aziraphale blushed. Crowley walked right past him, and Aziraphale needed to head in that direction anyway, so hurried to keep pace with him.

“It’s not...not a life drawing class.” Aziraphale insisted, cheeks rosy. “It’s an art class, which, apparently, has a life drawing unit.” 

“Apparently so.” Crowley agreed, grinning. “Mind if I see?” He asked, nodding towards the sketchbook. Aziraphale hesitated. “You don’t have to, angel.” And Crowley’s own cheeks burned as he let out the pet name.

“They’re not finished.” He informed Crowley, handing over the sketchbook. Crowley opened it, his eyebrows shooting up. His mouth dropped open as he looked at them, then showed Aziraphale his own sketch.

“My hands?” He asked, incredulously. Aziraphale nodded.

“They’re...well, they’re rather nice, aren’t they?” He asked, gesturing towards Crowley’s hands with one of his own. He’d sketched them in their totality, taking the entire two hours to work through them. Crowley passed the book back, and held his hands out in front of him, not breaking stride. 

“Are they?” He asked, looking at them with interest. They walked through an intersection, Crowley marching right through without looking either way. Aziraphale checked the coast was clear as he followed him.

“Yes, dear, they are.” And it was Aziraphale’s turn to blush again.

“Wasn’t there anything else of mine you’d like to sketch?” He asked, grinning toothily at Aziraphale. Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes, and promptly tripped over the curb.

“You weren’t wearing glasses the last time I saw you.” He pointed out, avoiding the question. Crowley grinned.

“Didn’t need them.” He insisted.

“You were driving!” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley laughed. 

“You don’t need to see to be able to drive.” Crowley snarked, and Aziraphale chose not to answer that particular ridiculous statement. Aziraphale stopped when they’d reached his apartment building. Crowley took another few steps before realizing that Aziraphale wasn’t following him. “Coming?”

“Oh, well, this is my apartment.” He said, gesturing at the door. “It was nice to see you.” He said, then widened his eyes at what he’d just said. “I mean, it was nice to, to speak with you. Not to, oh, well, oh you know what I mean.” He insisted, looking at his hands. Crowley crossed back over to him.

“Why don’t you come get a coffee with me? I owe you two now.” He said, leaning down to catch Aziraphale’s eye.

“Two?”

“One for the pick up, another for surprising you. Though, who am I kidding, I’ll take you for as many coffees as you’d like.” He smiled, hopelessly, at Aziraphale.

“I wouldn’t want to put you out…” Aziraphale said, trailing off. 

“Believe me, you wouldn’t be.” He insisted, reaching out with one hand before thinking better of it. “Let me?” Aziraphale thought for a moment, mulling it over.

“Well, alright.” He allowed, and took another step towards Crowley. He expected Crowley to lead him on, but he paused, smiling brightly and delightedly at Aziraphale. 

“How kind.” He offered his arm, and Aziraphale, feeling only slightly silly, took it.


	3. Espresso and Boogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, were you under the impression that Crowley WASN'T going to be Jewish in any fic written by me?? I'm accepting complaints and cries of outrage over at toby-zachary-ziegler

They do go to coffee, and Crowley, for his own part, is a perfect gentleman. 

“I’ll have a double espresso.” He orders, when he reaches the counter, and turns, his face morphing into bewilderment when he sees Aziraphale lagging behind. “And? What’ll it be, angel?”

“Oh, well, I wasn’t-” He cuts himself off, and shrugs.

“I’m taking you for coffee, I said.” Crowley reminded him, reaching out to tug him forward. Aziraphale didn’t yelp. He didn’t. No one can prove otherwise. “So?” Aziraphale fussed.

“I’ll have what he’s having.” 

Crowley bit down about 17 When Harry Met Sally references and nodded, paid the poor barista who didn’t get paid nearly enough to put up with Crowley’s pining, and tipped her generously. Crowley gestured around the nearly empty cafe, and Aziraphale chose a table with comfortable looking armchairs. Crowley sat in one, hiking his knee up over the arm rest, leaning his chin onto his elbow to look at Aziraphale. 

“So.” He said, grinning at him. Aziraphale sat primly, his hands folded together on his stomach. He looked...soft. Crowley nearly groaned. 

“So?” He repeated, grinning at him, looking like his grins were a secret that he couldn’t quite finish telling yet. Crowley loved it, and resolved to get the other man to laugh before the day was over. 

“What do you do, angel?” Crowley wondered, and Aziraphale grinned again. 

“I work in a bookshop, my dear.” He informed him, and Crowley attempted to stop feeling like he was levitating a few feet in the air at the term of endearment. 

“‘Sthat so?” He asked, looking up as the barista delivered their coffees. Tiny little cups. Why hadn’t Crowley thought to order something massive? Something that would have taken forever to drink. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, lightly taking his tiny mug out of the barista’s hands. “How darling.” He looked enchanted, and suddenly Crowley’s reservations about mug sizes flew out the window. He couldn’t speak for a second, but then Aziraphale’s eyes were back on him and he was compelled forward again.

“So, bookshop?” And Aziraphale melted.

“Oh yes, it’s really quite something.” Aziraphale informed him. “I love it there, all those books. I’ve always been a big reader, my father was always devastated that I couldn’t tear myself away from books for long enough to get interested in a sport, but I couldn’t help it. They’re just so lovely, all that knowledge wrapped up tight in those pages. All of those memories? Not to mention the smell of them. Like something familiar and entirely novel all at once.” Crowley sat, utterly enthralled, as Aziraphale went through his list of the virtues of books, there was a light behind Aziraphale’s eyes, and that blue, which had previously seemed deep and dark, like the sea, turned bright and twinkling, the color of a fresh new morning. He seemed to realize he’d been going on a bit too long, because he flushed. “I’m sorry, not at all interesting.”

“I beg to differ, Aziraphale.” Crowley told him, a little too honestly. Though, he’d never turned down an opportunity to be honest, especially not when it made Aziraphale look at him with such earnest delight. “Listening to people speak about what they’re passionate about is never a waste, and it’s so rare that what someone’s passionate about and what they do for a living actually align.” He said, quirking up a corner of his mouth into a smirk.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale said, fussing with the handle of his mug, but he looked pleased. “What about you, then?” Crowley shrugged, long and languidly, as if he was taking his time about it. 

“I’m a kindergarten teacher.” Crowley informed him, trying and failing not to grin. Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. 

“A kindergarten teacher.” He repeated, and Crowley nodded. “Who also...happens...to pose nude.” Crowley nodded again. “And...habitually gets arrested.” Crowley nodded again. “Well!”

“They’re not as separate as you might think.” He said, smiling. “The modeling thing just came about due to me being a bit strapped for cash when I was still in school.” He said. “I liked it, and Madame Tracey treats her models well, so I kept at it.” He smirked, picking up his espresso and taking a sip. “Lucky I did, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very.” Aziraphale agrees, then seemed to realize what he’s said and busies himself taking his own sip of espresso. His eyebrows shoot up. “This is lovely!”

“Really?” Crowley said, and he searched Aziraphale’s face. Nothing but open honesty there, just surprise and delight and enjoyment. “Glad you like it, angel.” He leaned back, but only succeeded in falling down the length of the arm chair, really very ungracefully. His eyes widened as he looked at Aziraphale, only for Aziraphale to burst into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear boy.” Crowley could have preened. “It’s only, you usually look so smooth!” Aziraphale seemed to notice he’d let his mouth get away from him again, and promptly shut it, his cheeks coloring. 

“Yeah?” Crowley said, scooting up and trying to right himself. “You think a lot about me, Aziraphale?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, and Crowley grinned.

They finished their coffees, and Crowley walked with Aziraphale out of the coffee shop, grinning at him the entire time. 

“Let’s do this again, sometime.” Crowley offers, as they pause. Aziraphale smiles softly, and nods a bit. “I’ll see you around, angel.” Crowley waves, and swaggers off to who knows where, looking very pleased with himself.

Aziraphale left, feeling quite sure he’d never see Crowley again, and feeling only a little devastated over it. He returns home to Anathema, who is doing yoga in what looks to be 3 different skirts and a crop top, and settles in to do a bit of reading before dinner and calling it an early night.

Crowley phones Anathema that evening, utterly desperate.

“Yes?” She answers, instead of hello. “What is it, Crowley?”

“How’d you know it was me?” He asked, he’d called the landline, after all. 

“You’re practically the only one who calls this number, do you need Aziraphale?” She asked, a knowing smile on her lips. 

“Yes, well, no, but-”

“Yes?”

“I need a book to read. A good book. Tell me a good book?” He asks, and Anathema is fairly certain he’s a little tipsy on wine. 

“Don’t you have class tomorrow?” She asks, no judgement in her voice, just amusement.

“I’m showing a video.” He replies. “Anathema, come on, a book!”

“Why exactly do you need a book to read?” Anathema asks, though she knows exactly why.

“So I can show your fucking gorgeous, beautiful, brilliant, amazing, angel of a roommate that I’m smart and well-read.” He insists, and she imagines him, throwing his hands into the air as he paces the length of his own apartment. 

“You are smart and well-read.” Anathema pointed out, not taking the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Crowley insists. 

“Go to a bookshop, find the classics section, pick out a book.” Anathema instructed, rolling her eyes at him.

“I heard that.” Crowley huffed. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when he hates me forever.” Anathema thought of Aziraphale coming home that afternoon, how his cheeks were rosier than usual, how he had a spring in his step that Anathema had rarely seen before, how he settled in peacefully for the evening.

“Yeah, I’ll make a note of it.” She replied, before promptly hanging up on him. 

Crowley spends the next morning chasing children around a playground, teaching them to tie shoes, and helping them write their letters. He teaches at one of the only Jewish Day Schools in their area, and pulls double duty as the kindergarten teacher. He teaches them reading, and monitors nap time, and basic math, but also teaches them the Hebrew letters, Hebrew songs, and the Jewish calendar. The label in his room for “Door” also reads “דלת”. He’d decorated the ceiling with hundreds of glow in the dark stars, and the walls were covered with student artwork.

His students, as they did every day around 2:30, begged him for a story. He’d read them 3 books at that point, but they liked to hear stories about him, about his life. He’d act them out sometimes for them, or would have them rolling on the floor laughing about a particularly funny fall he’d had.

“What would you like to hear then?” He asked, sitting cross legged on the carpet, the children hurried to form a circle with him. They sat there, eyes wide, noses crusted with boogers, paint on their hands. Crowley loved them, not that he’d ever admit it. Jacob raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Tell us about what you did yesterday?” He had a lisp the size of a whale, and Crowley melted.

“What makes you think I did anything exciting yesterday?” He said, but he was grinning.

“Please, Moreh Anthony!” Jacob insisted, and honestly, Crowley couldn’t keep him waiting for long.

“Oh, alright, then.” He grinned as they shuffled in a little closer. “I’ll have you know, yesterday, I made a new friend.” They gasped, and nudged their neighbors with their tiny little elbows. “I made a new friend, who has a wonderful smile. Show of hands, who here thinks that their friends have great smiles?” Every hand in the circle shot up, and some toothless smiles shone on their faces. “Me too. I met this new friend at an art class, and we went together to get coffee. We sat together, and I learned that he loves to read books. He learned that I teach you lot every day. Then, right at the end of our play date, I ended up falling nearly right off my chair!” They laugh, and he falls over onto the floor for good measure. “Does anyone here have a favorite book that I can tell my new friend about?”

They went around the circle after that, each of them sharing their favorite books, while Crowley listened intently. By the end of their day, he still didn’t have a book to read to impress Aziraphale, but at least he knew that his students were reading. He pulled out his cell phone after the last student was picked up, and searched for book stores in the area. He chose the nearest one, and set his GPS to direct him. He supposed someone who worked in a bookshop might be able to help him, at least a little.


	4. Golden Light and Pages Turned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is maybe not as confident as he first appeared, in which Aziraphale maybe is more observant than anyone gives him credit for. Featuring Gabriel, who exists only through the phone because I can't write a character played by John Hamm without laughing.

The Bentley screeched to a halt outside of the bookshop. Crowley slid out of his seat, the music shutting off as he took out his key. He peered at the faded, chipped lettering on the sign. A.Z. Fell and Co. He raised an eyebrow, he must be utterly out of his mind. He had never been a big reader, which was part of the reason he’d gone for children’s education rather than higher education, there was far less reading to do. Well, that, and Crowley loved children. It didn’t embarrass him, but he maintained his cool demeanor. It never put children off, they seemed drawn to his face (always expressive and over the top), and to his stature (flailing limbs worked in his favor). He pocketed his keys and sauntered into the bookshop. 

It was quiet inside, the low light filtering in from the high, dusty windows seemed to add a glowing warmth to the place. It smelled like sunshine, like old books, like hot cocoa. Crowley inhaled deeply, feeling the tension ease out of his shoulders as he did so. A little bell jangled as the door closed behind him.

“Welcome!” Called a voice from behind rows and rows of books. 

Crowley looked around, the place was covered in them. This wasn’t some corporate bookstore, the shelves were full, sometimes stuffed to bursting. There were piles of books on the floor, creating winding paths of old paper and wobbly spines. Crowley immediately felt in over his head, how was he meant to find something in all of this? Nevertheless, he took a dauntless step forward. He made a circle of the shop, looking for some sort of sign that could direct him, like Anathema had said there would be, but couldn’t find one. He huffed, before picking an aisle at random and heading down it, his usual swagger abated somewhat by all the books around him. He began to search, looking through the titles.

“I’m never going to find anything good in here.” He sighed, picking up a book at random and rifling through it. It looked like poetry, Crowley pursed his lips and put it back. That might have been a little too intense for starters. 

Aziraphale had been having a conversation with his cousin, Gabriel, when Crowley had walked through the door of the bookshop. Gabriel was technically the owner of the bookshop, but he lived out in California, far away from the cozy little shop, and let Aziraphale have the run of things as long as he sat through tediously long phone calls every other week. It had been their great grandmother’s shop, Azaria Fell, and had been passed down through the generations. Gabriel cared little for books, but the shop fell to him, and he passed it on, more or less officially, to Aziraphale. He’d heard the bell chime and had called out a hello before returning to wrap up the call. Gabriel had been thrilled to hear Aziraphale eager to interact with a customer, but Aziraphale mainly wanted to get off the phone and back to his cocoa and his Hugo. 

He shook off the phone call, and went up one of the aisles, fully intending to reclaim his spot in the comfortable armchair that always got the best light at this time of the afternoon, when he’d heard cursing from a few aisles away. Curious, he started for the source of the noise. He nearly fainted when he found Crowley, glaring at his books and furiously taking one out at a time, staring at the cover, murmuring a soft but emotional “fuck this” before replacing it. Aziraphale watched him for a moment or two before finally deciding to take pity on him.

“My dear boy, can I help you?” He asked, and Crowley whirled around, dropping the copy of Anna Karenina he’d been holding.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, but Aziraphale had already reached down, retrieved the book, and given it a gentle pat before repositioning it in the bookshelf. “Aziraphale? What the deuce are you doing here?” Aziraphale looked puzzled.

“I work here, dear boy.” He replied grinning at him. “Isn’t that why you’re here?” He’d figured Anathema had told him. She was always trying to get Aziraphale out and about more, not that it ever really worked that well. This, however, might actually be favorable. 

“No!” Crowley said, eyes wide behind his glasses. He seemed to realize how harsh he’d sounded, because he changed tactics. “No, I meant-I meant I didn’t know you worked here.” He grinned at him, running a hand through his hair. 

“Oh! Just a happy accident, then?” Aziraphale clarified, cheeks turning that lovely rosy shade. Crowley nodded enthusiastically. 

“Very happy.” He said, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“What brought you in, then? Perhaps I can help?” It was Crowley’s turn to blush. How was he meant to tell Aziraphale that he wanted to get a book to impress him with? How was he meant to play this? He gulped.

“I need a book.” He admitted, figuring that was safe enough. Aziraphale smiled.

“Yes, darling.” Crowley’s heart was hammering away. “This is a bookshop, that’s usually why people come here. What kind of book?”

“Well...I…” Crowley trailed off, looking around. “I’m not actually sure.” 

Aziraphale looked at him. Crowley seemed the sort to never be unsure about anything. He was all bravado, all swagger, all charm and confidence. But here, looking around the bookshop, eyes wide and cursing up a storm, he looked positively unsure. He looked worried, intimidated. Aziraphale’s heart was warmed, though he couldn’t say exactly why. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley met his eyes, looking really rather desperate, his eyebrows knitted together in worry. “Well, that’s alright, there’s plenty here to choose from, what do you like?” Crowley looked like he didn’t know where to start. “Poetry?” His cheeks colored, but he looked unenthused. “Romance?” Nose scrunch. “Mystery?” Eye roll. “Historical?” He nearly laughed. “Adventure?” His eyes snapped up to meet Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale grinned. “Ahhh, I have just the thing.” 

He was off, and Crowley followed, mouth agape, as Aziraphale navigated the stacks and piles of books, weaving his way through as if he knew the layout of the shop like the back of his hand. He paused in a particular aisle, wiggling his fingers as he searched for what he was looking for. The light caught his hair, drenching the blonde curls in gold. He was haloed in light, standing there in the bookshop, more sure than Crowley had ever seen him. He finally found what he was looking for, and pulled it from the shelf, presenting it to Crowley with only a touch of a flourish. Crowley looked at it.

“The Princess Bride?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “Surely not.”

“Well not with that attitude.” Aziraphale said, putting his hands on his hips, and Crowley had to bite his lip to keep him from bursting out with laughter. “Have you seen the film?”

“Of course I've seen the film.” It was, in fact, his favorite, but Aziraphale didn't need to know that. 

“Oh, good lord.” Aziraphale sighed. “Look, it’s snarky, it’s exciting, there’s adventure, fencing, fighting…” He trailed off, cheeks coloring again, though Crowley wasn’t sure why. “Just give it a try, I promise if you don’t like it I’ll give you another one.” 

“Well…” Crowley was about to protest, though, why? Wasn’t this exactly what he wanted? An excuse to talk to Aziraphale about something he liked? And here, he hadn’t even needed to slip it casually into conversation, he hadn’t needed to do the whole run around. “Alright...how much?” Aziraphale just rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, just borrow it from me.” He said, grinning at him. “You can return it once you’ve finished.”

“What? No, Aziraphale, I can’t do that.” He insisted, trying to shove the book back at Aziraphale, who just shook his head. “You barely know me, angel. What if I’m the sort to ruin books?” Aziraphale just pushed past him, but Crowley followed, intent on continuing to make his case. “What if I write horrible notes all through it?” He followed him to a little back room, where Aziraphale was pulling mugs down from a high cabinet. “What if I’m a wrecker? I’ve been known to wreck things I touch.” Aziraphale turned around at that.

“Enough of that.” He said. He steeled himself, took a steadying breath, then covered Crowley’s hands with his own on the book. Crowley felt goosebumps rise on his neck, it felt like his skin was prickling with electricity. “Look how carefully you’re holding it.” Crowley looked down, he was nearly cradling the book in his hands. “You’ll be careful with it, you’ll read it, you’ll bring it back to me. Right, dear?” Crowley couldn’t breathe. 

“Right.” Crowley breathed, before smiling at Aziraphale. “You gonna transform me into some kind of reader?” Aziraphale smiled. 

“You came here of your own accord, didn’t you?” He pointed out, and Crowley huffed. Aziraphale busied himself with the mugs. “Stay for a drink? I have some cocoa here that’s really quite nice.” He offered him a cup, and Crowley took it, hardly daring to believe his luck. 

“Yeah, yeah I think I’d like that.”


End file.
